


The Games We Play

by samidha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Evil Sam Winchester, Gen, NOT Soulless Sam, POV Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: Sam: "It didn't have to be this way. Or maybe it did." - Born Under a Bad Sign





	The Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember if this was written for SPNQuotefic or not, but it's probably so. I remember that the Sharp Teeth meme put me in horror mode for a while. This happened.

Dean feels the knife pull through his flesh, blood blooming fresh and hot against the skin of his arm. Sam cuts deep.

_Not Sam. Not Sam. This isn’t Sam._

The thing wearing his brother smiles wide, tries the expression on his face but he only looks twisted and wrong trying to feign the emotion. He grabs Dean’s other arm and twists as he pulls, hard enough to propel Dean’s entire torso sideways.

Dean doesn’t let himself react. He won’t give this bastard anything.

”How’s that feel?” Sam (notSamnotSamnotSamcan’tbeSam) taunts. ”Hmm?”

Dean doesn’t understand. The thing... the doppleganger... doesn’t feel. It doesn’t want anything. So where is this coming from?

”You want more? Because I’ve got more, Dean. A lot more. I’ll cut you up so pretty, none of your _friends_ will know it’s you. Not anymore.”

Dean feels another snick of the knife through flesh, notes that Sam’s cuts are wide and deep, like he’s aiming for bone.

One word escapes him before he can reel it back.

”Why?”

”Oh, that’s sweet. He doesn’t know. He still doesn’t know.” Sam laughs without a single drop of emotion behind it and Dean’s stomach twists. ”Want to take three guesses, Dean?”

”Not really,” Dean growls. The knife goes in again. If this thing really knew him, he wouldn’t bother with knives. Dean loves them, sure, but used on other people. On himself, they may draw blood but he barely feels them. He’s been desensitized, has been for a long time. ”Is this because I knocked you out?” he guesses anyway.

”Only a little. Though you do have to get it through your thick skull, you’ll never be able to hold me, Dean, not here and not in the panic room, not anywhere.”

”That’s peachy.” He wasn’t going to say anything, he wasn’t going to--

But it has Sam’s face, it has Sammy’s fucking face and sometimes if he just squints a little--

”No, no, no. That’s annoying, I’ll admit. But not much else. Like a fly in my ear. It doesn’t do much. I’ll always come back. I’ll always be stronger and faster--”

”And meaner,” Dean cuts in.

”Whatever. I’ll always be better than you, Dean,” Sam asserts.

”Oh, yeah, I’ll bet on that.”

”You wanna know how I know, Dean?”

”How’s that?” Dean growls.

”Because. That’s how you get to be His favorite.” The capital H is audible.

”S’that so?”

”So you go on, with all your little friends. You’ll never be His. Not like I was. You can keep them all, if they’ll even know what you are when I’m finished. But you’ll never have what I had.”

The knife doesn’t hurt but Dean knows now he’s losing a lot of blood. A lot of blood.

”You’ll never know what confidence Lucifer can give a man. All he has to do is show His Light, give a moment of His attention and you know. Do what you want to me, Dean. You’ll never know His love. Not for one second.”

Sam lifts the knife away, spinning it in the light, and smiles again. ”I win.”


End file.
